The Watchmaker's Daughter (Glass and Steele #1)(47)

A moment's silence followed in which I thought she'd won the argument already. Then he said, "I forbid it. She's not like you. She's not…worldly."

"She damn well is, and if you can't see it then you're not looking hard enough."

"Worldly isn't the right word." A floorboard creaked and footsteps tapped before the floor creaked again. He paced across the room. "You're going into a room full of men. Men who will be drinking and flush with money."

"Not after I fleece them."

"Willie! Listen to me. Miss Steele is an innocent."

"No, Matt, she isn't."

"She is, damn it!" His vehemence surprised and confused me. Why was he being so fierce with Willie over this? "She presents herself as confident and resilient, but she's not. She's vulnerable and too trusting. You and I both know those are the qualities of an easy target."

I stumbled away from the door, tears stinging my eyes. I wasn't sure what hurt more, that he thought I was weak and pathetic or that he pitied me.

Perhaps he was right and I was the woman he described. I had trusted him in the beginning, after all. But I no longer wanted to be that person. I didn't want to be taken advantage of ever again. Eddie had taught me the error of blind trust. Nor would I be spoken about in such a manner. Mr. Glass didn't know me.

I burst through the doors and stormed up to him. "You are very much mistaken, Mr. Glass. I am not easy, nor am I a target, as you put it."

He caught my arm as I moved away, pinning me against him. We were so close he must be able to feel my heart beating through his body. His dark eyes swirled like thunderous skies as they held me as thoroughly as his grip. "You shouldn't listen at doors, Miss Steele. It's not polite."

"I think we are well past being polite to one another, don't you?"

"Yes," he murmured. He lowered his face until it was only inches above mine. My heart almost jumped out of my chest. "Politeness be damned."

Willie cleared her throat. Next thing I knew, she'd grasped my hand and I was being dragged out of the drawing room. "Don't wait up," she called out to her cousin. "You need your rest."

I glanced back at him. He stood as rigid as a statue, his severe gaze on me as if he could will me to remain behind with just his glare alone. I smiled and waved at him.

"Be home by one," he snapped.

"Two," Willie said, already halfway out.

"One."

"Yes, Pa," Willie mocked. To me, she said, "We'll stay out 'til three, eh?"



"Watch and listen, but don't talk," said Willie as we approached a boot maker's shop on Jermyn Street. "Don't utter a sound, frown, smile, or try to signal me in any way, even if you think I have the winning or losing hand."

"How do I know what a winning or losing hand is?"

"Don't roll your eyes, raise your brows, or chew your lip or the inside of your cheek."

"May I breathe?"

"If you must, but not huffily."

My gaze slid to her, but it was difficult to see if she was being serious in the glow cast by the streetlamps. While the lighting here was better than most streets, it still wasn't enough to cut through the thickening fog. I pulled my coat closed at my throat, but the chill settled into my bones anyway.

It hadn't been a long walk from Park Street and the area was the best in London, but I jumped at every sound. The rumble of passing carriages and tap tap of footsteps were eerily disembodied in the dense air, like ghostly beings passing by. Willie seemed perfectly composed as she led the way to the Jermyn Street shops.

"Do you need new boots?" I asked as she knocked on the door of the boot maker's shop.

"This is the place," she announced.

"It doesn't look like a gambling hell. It looks like an ordinary shop."

"That's because it is, during the day. At night, the proprietor operates tables upstairs."

A thick-necked man with a small mouth opened the door, nodded at Willie then stared at me. I smiled and bobbed a curtsy. He continued to stare.

With a click of her tongue, Willie said, "Anyone would think you ain't never seen a woman before, Pinch."

"Not here, I ain't," he said.

"Oi!"

"You don't count."

She wove around the displays of shoes and boots to a door at the rear of the shop where the scent of leather was stronger. She pulled on a shiny brass bell and a clang responded from somewhere upstairs before another fellow opened the door. I turned back to see the first porter still staring at us. I hazarded a smile and, to my surprise, he smiled back.

The second porter didn't acknowledge us in any way. He was even burlier than the previous man. His jacket stretched over shoulders as large as boulders, and even his eyelids were thick with muscle. He took my presence in his stride and stepped aside so we could pass and climb the staircase, at the top of which was another door, reinforced with iron panels. A small lamp hung from a hook beside it, barely illuminating the top step. I had to feel my way up and take care not to trip. Masculine voices filtered out to us from the room beyond, mostly quiet but twice cut through by a raucous laugh. I pressed my hand to my roiling stomach. It was too late to back down now. Willie was unlikely to walk home with me and the thought of traipsing through the dark streets alone made me feel even sicker.